NaPoWriMo2019 #8




When his grasp on her hand dragged on like a fermata,
She wrenched it free.
He kept bringing up the same objections,
An obligato argument.
Lately, every moment they spent together
Was marked by dissonance.
Their conversation limited to a pentatonic range of options,
Their words spoken pizzicato,
With an accelerando crescendoing to a fortissimo,
The neighbors wondering if they should call in a domestic disturbance.
Then an intermezzo when they spoke civilly to each other,
Their alternating leitmotifs reminding them of the way they used to be.
Once again their rondo began, always coming back to the same theme.
Could they admit their relationship was little more than a scherzo?
It was time to declare it fine.



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